The Journey
by The Masked Writer1
Summary: A young girl meets T.E Lawrence.


The wind whistled through the stone crevices that littered the coastal city of Rabegh, where a young girl- not much older than 13 or 14 years old- silently trod through the silty soft sand that blanketed the city. It was late afternoon, but darkness was approaching on fleet wings. The girl held a great clay pot atop her shoulders, filled to the brim with sweet well water. It occasionally would tip over the rim and refresh her bare shoulders and greasy black hair that lay in tendrils down her brown back.

Rabegh had once been a flourishing city of trade and beautiful markets filled with delicacies that could make your mouth water with just a glance. Cutlets of lamb, chicken and camel roasted on skewers over flickering coals and a variety of fresh cheeses lay atop cool palm leaves. The pungent smell of saffron and mint permeated the air, light bundles redolent with the scents of rosemary and thyme were bought to ward off witches and demons, and baklavas drenched in rose and orange water and sprinkled with cinnamon, sumac, and sun-dried slivers of pearl-white almond were all sold for a couple of liras. Most people dismissed this 'town' as unimportant, once destroyed by seawater, but for the girl it was the centre of all the fairy-tale stories of her childhood that her crippled father had told her between his ritual chewing of qat. As the green herb trickled down his chin and he gazed euphorically into the smoky haze of the desert, he would recount tales of beautiful enchanted princesses locked in underground caverns who sang ballads for powerful genies and enchanting 'ifrits who seduced the most unwary of moneychangers with their wealth and charm. It was all a dream that the girl could already taste- the gooey honey dripping down her face with each luxurious bite- but that had been seven centuries ago when the Arab world had been rich and powerful, now it was just a beautiful piece of broken pottery- a shell of what it once was, divided by colonial powers.

She had been walking for so long that she realized she had ceased to pay attention to the direction she had been going and gave a sudden exclamation as she realized that she had been wandering eastward in the direction of the expanse of desert which bordered the city. At a loss she gazed around her, the skeletal mud buildings rose out of the ground and created ominous shadows in the looming twilight. Fear seized the girl and she remembered her father's words of the dangers that always lay hidden in the shadows at hours such as these. The patter of her bare feet grew louder as she began to jump at the sound of a baby's wails and the shrieks of cat fights which resonated off the buildings. A low moan from a dark alleyway woke her from her frozen state of panic and she flew around the corner, heart beat quickening, her hair flying about, her only thought whirling through her head was to get away- get away as fast as possible...

Suddenly, she found herself exactly where she had hoped she would not end up, at the edge of the city, as far from home as she could possibly be. She had been running relentlessly with the heavy clay pot of water and now it seemed only 20% full, the rest having sloshed onto the grimy road- now mixing with camel dung and other filth. She cursed herself with some of the colourful language she had learnt from her father before laying down her burden and resting on a slab of broken granite. She forced herself to raise her weary head and was met with an unforgettable sight- the desert- the dunes rolling like undulating waves, still and shimmering, each grain of sand a jewel in its own right. The girl gave a sharp intake of breath as she gazed at the sun, like a great pomegranate, as it rounded a particularly large dune and reddened the sky with its magnificence. Even the clouds became golden and purple in its presence. Her father had told her that gold and purple were the colours of royalty and prestige, and now here she saw the sun glowing as if it were the sultan of the skies, surrounded by its court, dressed in the imperial colours.

She turned her head abruptly at what sounded like a soft sigh, distant and melancholy. Her eyes widened as she saw above her, on a round chunk of stone which jutted out from an abandoned house (a house which reminded the girl of a fortress with its buttresses and diminutive towers touching the sky) a man facing towards the desert. Could it be- resplendent in white flowing robes of silky fabric, complete with a _keffiyeh _made of simple _agal_ resting atop his shoulders - a Sharif?! It was hard to tell from her vantage point and her heart quickened at the sight of this resplendent outfit. The man seemed to be gazing out in the same direction as she had, and he sat hunched over, his hands resting on his knees, his face indistinguishable.

She trembled as she continued to look on in awe. Atop his shoulders he wore a simple leather cloak, and she could barely make out what seemed to be a dagger held snugly against his waist. He looked thin and small, and he sat perfectly still as unmovable as the dunes, his boots buried under a thick layer of sand. A frayed notebook, its pages worn and falling apart, could be seen lying in his lap.

She moved closer to get a better look at the solitary figure and found herself slowly scrambling up the detritus, carefully so as not to startle him or cause any sudden movements. Could it be that this man truly was a great and powerful Sharif who dwelled in childhood stories? He looked as if he wanted to curl up into nothingness, but it seemed that the harder he tried to back away and hide, the brighter he seemed to shine, the more majestic he seemed to become. It was as if the robes of a Sharif had him marked crying, 'you cannot escape from your destiny!".

She crept slowly upward, intrigued but most certainly wary, for who knew who this man might be, and assuredly her father was already worried about her. The devastating thought of her poor father gasping in agony as he considered the horrors which might have befallen his daughter was a thought which slowed the climb a bit, but having had a reality check and realizing that her father was most probably settling into his hookah right about now for its warm, comforting smell and taste, was not so much as a sedative for the girl's nerves, but something dark and saddening, as if a thunder cloud had settled over her head. There had been days- long ago, when her father had been well and whole, and her mother had been alive and her brother had been around. Her brother had once been fighting for an independent Arabia. It seemed like ages ago- but the passing of time could have made it perhaps fewer than several years. Her brother had stories that rivalled her father's, stories which rivalled them because they were true. He spoke of the Ottomans, who drank the blood of their victims and stuck people's heads onto poles which they paraded in Damascus and Deraa. Before bed he would frighten her by saying that the monstrous Ottomans preyed on little girls that didn't fetch the water before bed- perhaps that was why she was so diligent about it now. Her favourite story though had been about a great leader who led men into battle- he had the iron will of an Arabian charger, was sly and cunning as a cobra, and had the knowledge of Allah himself; most wondrously though was the fact that his hair was yellow! Yellow like Boabdil the Great, her brother would say before blowing the last bit of candle fat out. Yellow hair! It was magical and absurd all in one; but she believed all of it. In fact, she lapped it up like almond milk on a scorching day.

She scrambled the last bit over the piece of broken stone, trying her best not to alert the man still directly above her, whom she was coming in good sight of. In fact, it seemed he had not noticed her at all; he was so absorbed in looking at the horizon. The sun was dipping low in the sky now, and the light now danced off the man's hair, which was parted so that his locks fell across his fore head in one deft swoop, some damp kiss curls loosely plastered to his forehead. As the sunlight glinted off the solitary figure, the girl came to give a small cry, for she saw that as the sun sparkled off the man's face that his hair- his hair was the colour of the sun and the sand- it was in fact _gold_! She was so startled that she almost toppled over the ledge. She was standing a bit downward over the overhang that the man was on and stood approximately thirty feet away from him, still not close enough to get a really good look- but as she tried to steady herself, a couple of small pebbles fell down the slope, causing the man to turn around and locate her.

He performed the act quite slowly and deliberately as if he knew she had been there all along. Stunned and breathing heavily, the girl now came to see this was not your everyday Abdulla, nor was he the Sharif she imagined him to be.

'You live here?' his voice was quiet and raspy.

She could not breathe, she could not breathe- her lungs were drawn tight as the skin on a drum- 'Yes,' she finally exhaled, eyes wide, her body quivering with total shock.

A dramatic pause ensued.

'The sunset here is very beautiful is it not?'

His Arabic is perfect, she thought, and the sweat poured down her skin in relentless buckets.

'Yes,'

'Would you like to come and join me?' the question hung in the air, like the heady fragrance of lilac blossoms.

The girl thought she would faint, her vision swam, and the white clad person on the cool granite seemed a surreal dream.

The man chuckled, 'Don't be afraid, I won't bite,'

As if possessed by some demonic spirit, she began to walk, upwards toward the man, her heart reverberating in her chest, and her throat as dry and parched as the restless beating wind, which made the man's cloak flutter and billow.

She clutched at her own tunic as she scrambled up the slope, barely noticing when she twisted her ankle in a crack between the stone. She was mindless, hypnotized, by the angelic voice of the man. Granted, it had seen better days, but the honeyed way in which he pronounced each syllable could have charmed a rattlesnake. It was as if his mere voice was drawing you to him, persuading you.

She came to rest directly beside him on the piece of rock he rested upon, never losing eye contact with him. Finally, her heart leaped into her throat as she realized that this mysterious man was not an Arab, nor a Turk, but, but an Englishman! The deathly pallor of his skin, the surprising lightness of his hair- how did she not see the resemblance before? Of course he could have well nigh been a Circassian of Northern descent- but once she had heard the slur in his pronunciation, and had seen the shape of his features and the Latin letters written upon the cover of the notebook (like most desert-living Arabs, she had excellent vision) his ancestry seemed to become perfectly obvious.

The mere thought of sitting beside an Englishman sent a horrible chill down her spine. How naive she was! She, believing that this solitary figure could be the Boabdil of her brother's stories! No, he was no Arab, nor was he a Turk- he was something far worse, and something to be undoubtedly feared, but feared differently, for she knew that the _British _did not fight the way the Turks did, with intimidation and by instilling fear. They fought with logic and science. They intimidated people with their power, which extended limitlessly around the world. How did she know this?

The day the British travelled through Rabegh was a sight to behold; women and small babies, boys and girls, old toothless women with their horrible yellow eyes upturned to the world, flies whirling around them like a cloud of vultures- women who waited for their Abdullah to come home from war, crawled out from the mud to see the British parade through town. The British came like an unstoppable wave, their uniforms a brilliant scarlet, their buttons shiny and golden. Trumpets and bugles blared in the silky air, and it was as if Rabegh had suddenly been transported back to some fantastic parade of British superiority in Europe. The soldiers marched in perfect synchrony, their magnificently polished boots thumping against the beaten path.

Leading them was a plump, dark man who smiled and waved as if he expected the denizens to fall at his feet in utter awe. Men on horseback surrounded him, the coats of their chestnut stallions glittering in the morning light. Strangely enough, a woman followed on horseback. It was quite shocking and unusual for the girl, for our heroine had never seen a British woman before. The woman's skin was pale and smooth, her dark hair was curled and thrown into a bonnet filled with hothouse roses, and she was smiling benignly and lethargically, holding a parasol above her head. She was very beautiful. The girl did not know why they were here, and why this sudden display of power was necessary, but she watched in horror, as one of the local beggars dropped at the feet of the leading individual, evidently giving a plea for help.

Our heroine knew that beggars illicit different reactions in Arabia. While some would kindly offer a beggar a few liras, others would spit upon a beggar, and certainly the wise would never give one money- her father told her, some 'beggars' were dangerous- or would simply ask for more money each time until they got their way with you. In any case this old beggar crawled to the foot of the marching band, unable to walk, probably suffering from gangrene, or else just a cripple. As he lifted his arms in a gesture that suggested begging, the woman suddenly gave a sharp cry and grabbed at her bag beside her, making her mount cease its trotting- ultimately halting the whole procession. The dark man at the front of the parade, who now could be seen looking quite dishevelled and annoyed, his moustache soggy against his porous face, gave a sharp bark, and cracked his whip against his fat thigh.

Without noticing the cries of the beggar, the woman commenced to throw small coins from horseback. The commotion caused other beggars in the area to make a scramble for the shiny coins, resulting in a full-scale clash as men, women and children made a mad dash to the scene. It was awful. The people punched and tore at each other's hair in their efforts to reach the waterfall of coins, and all the time, the pretty lady laughed with pleasure as if she were watching pigeons swarming for breadcrumbs. Hiding her eyes, the girl waited for this shower to stop, and finally when it did- she was horrified to see the first old man, lying on the ground- having crawled away from the woman with his meagre loot- irrevocably dead from the beating he had just endured. A small sob emanated from the girl's throat, and disgusted and terrified, she watched transfixed as the parade commenced again, and a coal black mare walked straight over the body of the dead man, probably crushing his skull. The girl felt a sudden convulsion inside her, and running as fast as she could into the corner of a dark alley, she retched the contents of her stomach out onto the dusty road. She swore then, that she never again wished to see a Briton.

Here she was though, faced with the one of them. In fact, she was sitting directly beside one!

'Do you like fairytales?'

The question was so absurd and direct; the girl nearly fell off the stone.

The girl was very silent.

'F-f-fairytales?' Stories? The girl thought.

'Yes, like, 1000 And 1 Nights?' he progressed.

'I, I- I don't like fairytales, I'm too old for them,'

'My father used to tell me stories,' she continued a bit hesitantly.

'Not anymore?"

Silence.

'I see,'

'You still like them, don't you?' he pursued.

'N-no, y-yes, maybe...' she mumbled, embarrassed.

'You do,'

'No, I don't!'

'Yes you do, I can see it in your eyes,'

She blushed, red as the setting sun, when she realized that he was looking at her.

She giggled. 'How did you know?"

'People tell me I am good at reading people,' he crossed his hands.

Smiling he continued to speak 'When I was a boy, I used to love fairytales; about great men, knights in shining armour,' the intensity in his gaze deepened and his pupils dilated.

The girl's face went blank.

'Men who did great deeds, and defeated evil, a bit like heroic princes- men who dared,' he translated.

'I wanted to be like them, accomplish their deeds- perhaps even...beat them,' he stated a bit shyly.

'I suppose that's why...' his voice trailed off.

He picked up a loose rock and gave another low caramel chuckle.

'There is a lot you can learn from rock,'

Still to fearful to say a word, the girl remained deathly silent.

'A lot of secrets can be found in this landscape, secrets that can only be unlocked by the observant,'

'You can either understand it, or fail'

A short spasm of laughter ensued.

'I should know,'

He turned to look at her with surprising intensity.

'You have no idea what I'm talking about do you?'

The wide-eyed girl shook her head in terror, hoping she had not incurred his wrath.

He simply sighed, and a shadow crossed his golden face.

A minute or two passed as the couple sat in awkward silence looking out over the horizon.

Suddenly the man's face lightened and he turned to the girl.

He turned around pointing to the narrow street of Rabegh leading into the city center from the desert, shading his eyes with one hand as if he did so all the time.

'Have you ever noticed something about that street?"

'No...?'

'Guess,'

Rather abruptly the girl said 'It's always filled with camel shit,'

The two burst out laughing so hard that they gripped their sides and keeled over, wiping tears from their eyes. It was so random, and suddenly all formality and tension between the two were gone.

'Close, but no cigar!' he laughed.

'What?' the girl answered confused.

'Just an expression' he exclaimed.

'I don't know,' she shrugged, once again fearing she had said the wrong thing.

Succulently, as if he was enjoying a delicious morsel of meat, playing the rich flavours on his tongue, the man whispered conspiratorially 'Only one camel can pass through,'

A bit stunned, the girl looked at the figure as if he was weak in the mind.

'Pardon?'

'One camel,' he whispered again gleefully, rubbing his palms together.

'What does that mean?'

Again, 'Guess,'

He does like guessing games, the girl thought. 'There would only be enough pistachios for a merchant of nuts and sweets to eat on his way here, and not enough for him to sell upon his arrival. If there was a larger street, then he could have brought his whole caravan, and he would not have had this problem.' She smiled at her wise thinking.

'Any other guesses?'

The girl thought hard, and suddenly the answer became clear as if the sun had shone a beam directly upon it.

'Beggars! Beggars could attack the camel!' the girl cried triumphantly, throwing her arms in the air.

'Yes, yes, very good!' he smiled broadly nodding his head. 'You are starting to think like a general!'

'They could swoop down from the buildings! A whole horde of them! Just like in Ali Baba, and kidnap the merchant and take him to a secret cave where they store their riches-'

'Exactly, exactly, perfect!' the man interrupted. 'You are very smart,'

'Tell me, was your family once Bedouin?"

'My, my, family?"

'Yes,'

This was indeed an unusual question. She did not know much about the 'Bedouin', all she knew was that they were people who lived in the far reaches of the desert and, unhindered by weather or thirst, simply trod on into the blue, their caravans of camels behind them, stretching off in infinite numbers. She had seen them once heading in from the great Nefud Desert which stretched from the east. Then she remembered her brother.

'My brother married the daughter of a man who hated the congestion of Rabegh and therefore moved to the green water-bearing valley of Bisha, not many miles from here. Because of this man's weak clan affiliations, he was continually being relocated by stronger tribes who wanted the scanty bits of land he had managed to cultivate. It was horrible, and his family barely had food to eat, even though they were living in such a prosperous area. Finally, after having his house and all his belongings burned to the ground only a couple of weeks after moving to a northern valley named Dawasir, he came back to Rabegh, a broken man who was pitied by everyone as a person who tried to escape crushing poverty (a dream many had), but who had failed in the process. With the pity funds he collected from the town, he managed to buy a small herd of sheep and goats- and found himself gazing farther and farther into the Nefud. When my brother married his daughter, the dream of becoming a Bedouin became a reality, at least for my brother, his son-in-law. The man was too old and sick now to 'become' a Bedouin, but it was not too late for his new son-in-law. My brother took his flock and with his father-in-law's blessing started a new life out there...' the girl pointed out into the desert, where the sun was creeping down in the sky. 'After that, we never saw him again. A merchant we knew from Yemen told us he thought he saw him at a camel market in Damascus, he said that his wife was with him, that they had two children, and that my brother had grown a beard. I didn't believe him, my brother would never just leave and not come back,' sadness and the slightest hint of fear edged her voice, as if she was trying to convince herself that it was not true.

'I might have known your brother,'

The girl's head almost snapped off her shoulders.

'Then again, I have known a lot of men, but everyone's story is different, and I love listening to people's stories, yours in particular,' he gesticulated with his hands.

'I believe that to understand a people, or to understand a person, you must sit with them, listen to what they have to say, ask questions, learn about their families, spend time with them, weeks and months even,'

'Do you know where your brother went?" he continued.

The girl thought to herself.

'I think he went inland, that is all I know.'

The Sharif-man smiled and his leathery skin stretched across his tanned face, 'Here on the coast, you have the Ansaria, and to the east you will find the Kurds, interrupt me if I'm wrong, followed by the Arab Circassians in the north, Persian Ismaelis, Greek Christians on the coast near Palestine, Sullis, Witawalli Shir- am I doing alright?'

The girl's throat was dry.

'-and right on the edge of Mosel, you have the devil-worshipping Yesidis, now, they keep the loveliest hospitality- and do not laugh, for they are not as bloodthirsty as you may be told!'

Shocked and giddy, the girl cried out '_Allah almighty! _How do you know so much? – and you a-'

'Almost an Arab?' he was smirking now, his blue eyes glittering.

'Yes,' she grinned back, blown away by his presence, 'Almost an Arab,'

'Almost a Bedouin?" the girl asked.

'Me? Do I look like one?"

The girl gazed at him for several seconds, admiring his rich golden hair so carefully plaited, the soft folds of the cloth he wore and the _kefiyeh_ that rested atop his shoulders; she also noticed the tired circles under his eyes. Eyes that had seen too much. He looked simple, but magnificent.

'Yes,' she whispered luxiousiously, filled with awe.

Once again he gave a jaunty chuckle. 'Yes, yes, indeed, in fact I can travel up to 100 miles a day!'

'No! That is impossible!'

'Indeed not, not only am I extremely strong, but my camels have always been extraordinarily strong as well,'

'You brag! Allah does not like impudence such as yours!' she turned away.

'A difficult feat, but I never brag, I only tell the truth,'

'You lived with the Bedou?" the girl asked.

'Yes, and as little as I want to admit it, I found the condition gruelling, can you imagine 40 people sleeping in a tent, people dying of cold in the night- the nights out there- out there- are the worst I have ever experienced,'

The girl remembered the conditions she lived in - huddled on the second floor of their apartment building with a father who found odd jobs wherever he could.

'I suppose you have a lot of friends, a lot of people who look up to you,' she frowned.

'I once did, people _did _look up to me, and others, _others...'_

'I never had many friends, but once I controlled people, people bowed down to me- people who could not see me for who I really was. They loved me and in turn- in turn, I betrayed them. They put their trust in me, and I let them down. Lies, lies- they lived for lies!'

He shivered and looked out into the distance, clutching his cloak to him. She saw how pathetic he looked huddled up like that.

The girl changed the subject 'What are your favourite qualities in a person?"

'Kindness, dignity, generosity...I base my life on the 'Seven Pillars of Wisdom,'

'The Seven Pillars of Islam?"

'Well, not exactly, my 'Seven Pillars' are more a manifestation of the qualities that you expect a person to have,' he explained.

'The first is honour, followed by justice, responsibility, courage, determination, integrity and-'

'All these together I assume will lead you on the path to wisdom?' the girl interrupted doubtfully.

'I hope so, for my life has revolved around these human qualities; perhaps because where I come from they are so hard to come by...'

'...maybe even...' the words were thick upon his tongue.

'Maybe even what?"

'Mercy,' his voice was soft and almost indistinguishable.

'What is _mercy_?" she asked. 'I have never heard this expression!' Indeed the word was unfamiliar to her.

'Mercy, mercy- _mercy is _helping someone in need, offering your life in exchange for theirs, pitying those less fortunate than you, people at a _disadvantage' _his voice cracked with emotion. 'Mercy is _thinking _before you _shoot, shoot, shoot..._-' he stuttered, his golden tongue turning to lead and his eyebrows etching above his forehead, his breathing heavy and thick.

'Shoot the- the gun?" the girl looked up with concern in her eyes.

'Yes,' the man dropped his head and the girl's hands became cold and sweaty.

Suddenly a scorpion crawled out from under the rock, its sapphire pincers glinting in the air like rare jewels, it was fantastic, so unlike the other dull, stone-coloured arachnids.

The girl leaped in the air with horror, but the Sharif-man calmly waited for her to calm down, before picking the scorpion deftly up (it was more afraid then the girl!) and holding it in his hand without a trace of fear.

'Put it down! You will get stung- _Allah forbid! Put it down!' _

He continued to hold it, keeping it at eyelevel.

'What are you doing?!"

'Calm yourself, it is beautiful, no?'

Finally she regained her nerve.

'Yes, it _is, I- it is very pretty,' _she admitted, but how can you hold it like that?"

'If you grip the front of the tail and the backlegs this way, you will be safe from its venomous sting, a trick taught to me by the Sharif of Mecca,'

She was about to give an astonished retort on how unbelievable it would be to see the Sharif of Mecca, but she stopped herself, because for once, she had met someone who had completely blown her away.

She continued to sit, watching him and gazing at the scorpion in his hand that was trying its best to swivel its tail uselessly under his thumb.

'It is very beautiful!'

'Beautiful, but dangerous,'

'A bit like the desert?"

'Yes, yes, indeed like the desert,'

'I don't suppose you have any more tricks up your sleeve?"

'Actually, I do. Do you like pretty things?"

'Oh, I never see many pretty things!'

'Here then,' he pulled out a small lacquered snuff box with a red velvet interior.

'Oh my, thank you!' she breathed, at a loss for words.

'It, it's marvellous! How could you give up such a treasure?'

'You can fill it up with whatever pretty things you find,' he smiled.

She turned back to him 'then again, I suppose you are rich,'

Silently they gazed over the sand dunes, and much to the girl's surprise, a lone person could be seen walking, like a diminutive doll, over the dunes, slowly but surely, leading his camel behind him, a staff in one hand.

'I sort of look up to the Bedou, they are always moving, never static, they live such a difficult life without ever settling down; yet they accomplish it with ease. They live for the moment, and are as wild and free as the lusty breeze,' the girl softly whispered.

'That was very poetic,' replied the man evidently impressed.

'Life is like a journey. I suppose we can never just stop, and expect that life will catch up with us. We have to continue living, with passion and verve, and we have to live and die for what we believe in,'' she sighed remembering her brother, somewhere out there.

The man gave a great sigh as if he was letting something inside him go. 'You are right, in fact I never have met a person more _in the right _in my life,' Once again that pain, that horror, that exhaustion, came whooshing out of him.

Barely audibly he said 'Perhaps I can take up motorcycles,'

The sun had disappeared now and twilight was settling over the city, like a blanket of silk.

'Oh-oh I, I have to go now...' she gazed back towards the city with concern.

'My father,' she breathed, not wanting to leave this newfound- not a _friend, _but a_ character out of the Arabian Nights._

'No, go, go' he waved and his eyes crinkled. 'Go home,' he motioned. His long sleeves rustled in the evening breeze.

She got up slowly, carefully, not losing eye contact with the marvellous seated figure.

'You stay here?"

'Me, me? I think I will be alright.'

'Thank you' he added, though the girl did not know why.

Before she left she turned back to him asking a question she knew she had to utter. 'What is your name?"

'Lawrence, but most people call me Aurens,'

'Farewell, Aurens', she whispered.

'Now, go home, it is late,'

Again that hypnotizing honeyed tone urging her away, away- she scrambled down the slippery rock face again- constantly looking backward at the man who had created such an impression on her, before she melted into the fabric of darkness.


End file.
